


The 18th Century Was Weird for Everyone

by Annabeelee



Series: God(s?) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Demigods, Gods, Humor, Illnesses, Immortality, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabeelee/pseuds/Annabeelee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realizes that being sick has it's perks, even if it still is absolutely fucking terrible, and Sherlock can't actually seem to handle that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 18th Century Was Weird for Everyone

**Author's Note:**

> This happens a week after "Coffee and Influenza". At least read "I've Never Been a Fan of Fishing" before this one. I strongly recommend it.

Being sick is terrible. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, having an illness just makes everything completely and utterly awful. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. John could be winning the lottery along with being awarded every fucking award there is out there, and he'd still want to roll over and sleep until the pressure in his skull and nose fucked right off. Except, John wouldn't be able to sleep, because he's coughing so much his throat is on the verge of collapsing, so that particular scenario doesn't actually work in this instance.

Point still stands though: on a scale of 1 to 10, John rates it a negative twenty-two.

It had started on an assignment, where he and Sherlock had spent eight hours watching a massive whale-like… thing, waiting for it to do anything except for sleep in the basement of a particularly busy woman's house. Mycroft gave that as the reason for the woman never noticing it in the apparent month it had been growing there, but John was certain it was because her basement was actually horror movie brand creepy at best, and the whale thing never moved anyhow. John probably wouldn't have noticed it either, especially seeing how the basement made him wonder how many different serial killers could be hiding in there _right fucking now_.

So, sitting there, observing the measured breathing patterns of yet another foreign creature, John had little to distract him from the itch in his throat, especially since Sherlock had assumed gargoyle mode and had barely blinked in the eight long _insufferable_ hours they spent there. Escalating slowly but surely, the itch became a thirst, then a raw burn until finally John began coughing, politely as he could. This did not wake up their sleeping target, as it were. In fact, they could've dropped a bomb on the fucking thing, and still would've acted like they were singing it a damned lullaby.

"You have coughed thirty two times in the past twenty five minutes." Sherlock informed him, looking at John for the first time in five hours. John just sort of blinked at him. _He was counting?_ "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, sorry." John says this, but even now, sitting next to Sherlock who was already watching the thing again in some miserable fuck basement, he could feel his nerves begin to twitch, every shift of fabric having them screaming out in anguish. Before the eight hours was up and the whale vanished into a puff of periwinkle air, (that had been surprisingly anti-climactic, and John felt distinctly robbed of those eight hours), John's nostrils plugged up, his sinuses tightened into a firm knot, and his head throbbed from the beauty of it all.

God, John hated being sick.

* * *

Usually, when under the effects of an illness, John couldn't be arsed to move from whatever spot he initially fell upon, until the nasty symptoms lessened to a more manageable degree and he could think beyond 'my throat really fucking hurts' and 'why can't I stop coughing?' and the all-time favorite 'I just want to breathe out my damn nose again!'. This time was no different and the sofa became his new home, seeing how his room was a) upstairs, b) too far away from the kitchen, and c) had no television. Obviously, this piece of furniture was optimal for the infected to live out their last days, which he surely was doing.

Well, not actually, but with the way people treated him, you'd think he had all of his limbs removed.

He expected Sherlock to ignore him, to scoff at his puny mortal diseases, to leave, and not return until John was all better and less covered in snot and spit. Expectations were low and John was fully mentally prepared for that. What he didn't foresee was what actually happened. In fact, John still isn't sure he hallucinated the whole fucking thing. They could show him tapes, and he'd still question it.

Day two of sickness, when he finally actually claimed the sofa as his by doing what most sick people do and cough over everything while leaving a small forest of tissues all around him, and Sherlock saunters out of his room, takes one look at John who is doing his best impression of a leper, and freezes between the kitchen and sitting room. Time pauses for a few seconds as Sherlock just stands there, blinking at him slowly with giant eyes and John blinks back at him, trying to match this staring contest before his coughing interrupts and neither can be claimed victor.

When he's recovered and his lungs are thankfully still intact, Sherlock has disappeared, not out the door, but back to his room, and John just sort of sniffles, asks himself what he had expected from a fucking demigod, and finally works up the strength to grab the remote so he can watch shitty reruns on the television. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, brings him a light breakfast out of the kindness of her heart, which John is more than thankful for, seeing how he can't even muster up the will to change the channel.

"Oh, you poor thing." She coos checking his temperature with her palm as if that will tell either of them anything other than his forehead is hotter than the sun. "Sherlock better not try dragging you all over the country till your better."

"His fault in the first place." Which it is, and his pointless experiment in the kitchen which he never properly stowed. 'Demigods do not get sick' he had told John in the first week of knowing each other, when he was at his most pompous and cold. Yeah, well, John does, so thanks for nothing, you giant git.

"You just rest now. If you need anything, give me a holler." John wouldn't, because he'd rather not be a bother, but he promises to anyway.

She leaves, and John's just about to settle in to take a nap seeing how it's been three hours since he woke up, and clearly, a nap is the only option left for him, when fucking Mycroft pops into existence by the front door. He can't even use the bloody door like everyone else, just blinks in with all of his entitled god bullshit. John swears if the bastard has an assignment for them, he's going to sneeze all over his umbrella.

And laugh while doing it.

"Hello, John." Mycroft says as if John wasn't glaring the life out of him, and John grunts in response, trying to sit up and ending up sort of flopped over the arm of the sofa like a ragdoll as another bout of coughing hits him. Proof that you cannot look threatening while sick with the flu, or sick with anything, for that matter. "You're ill."

"Thank you for noticing. I hadn't been quite sure between the sinus headache and the fucking coughing, but thank you for confirming it for me." It comes out mostly correct, a cough or two fucking up a few choice words, but overall, John's proud of himself. Mycroft makes a face, and Sherlock finally reappears, still wild eyed, but hiding under a façade of indifference.

Wait, is he fidgeting?

"As you can see, John is too unwell for any work until further notice." Sherlock tells Mycroft what everyone in the room already damn well knows, but John's too weak to reprimand him for it. He's saving any and all obnoxious energy for Mycroft, seeing how annoying the man has swiftly become his favorite hobby. Right next to ogling Sherlock when he has just come out of the shower, and is too fucking proud to get actually dressed right away, (so it was a little pervy. Not like John had a proper outlet anymore, and no, he wasn't buying any toys online since his laptop was bugged to hell. Like he needed Mycroft knowing where his sexual interest had fallen, thank you very much).

More research is required to see which of these two activities is the more pleasing. In this, he would be a proud and dedicated researcher.

Mycroft stands before John, ignoring his brother and the way John is still glaring at him like an angry cat, and he places a hand on John's forehead, much like Mrs. Hudson had, but with fewer good intentions. For a brief moment, John's symptoms are gone and so is the fucking room and the whole world seems so insignificant as the span of existence lays out before his eyes in quick bursts of blurred images. It was someone's life, whose exactly, John doesn't know as words whisk past him accompanied by scenes from an unknown era. For that brief moment of contact, John saw into a part of the fabric of reality, down one specific thread before it frayed and the contact broke.

Mycroft pulled away, and John gasped, the present hitting him full force and he began coughing all over again, brain a mess as it reconciled with what he had just witnessed.

"I looked as far as I could. He'll be fine in a week." John heard Mycroft say, but he couldn't actually see him yet. Everything was suddenly very fuzzy.

"What would Mummy think of you doing that without proper clearance?" Sherlock sneers, appearing just as happy as John currently feels. Needless to say, not very much.

"Mummy would most likely deem it fine. John is our special case."

"What the hell was that?" John finally found his tongue, and it was confused as hell. He's trying to rub at his temples, like that will help at all as he flails a bit on the sofa. "What did you just do?"

"I looked into your future, but by doing so, I inadvertantly showed you mine." Mycroft answered, nonchalantly and John struggled to remember what he had witnessed. It was all just a blur though, which was unfortunate since any blackmail on Mycroft is good blackmail. "I wouldn't bother. Mortals cannot tell what the Sight holds, but thankfully for you, I can. You'll be fine in a week." John already knew that. He's had this exact same virus at least twenty times now. He's knows how it works.

Sherlock is relieved by Mycroft's words, seeing how he lets out a barely noticeable sigh, yet he's still fidgeting, shifting on his feet subtly, and glancing between Mycroft and John as if John's about the keel over, dead as a doorknob at any second. He nearly jumps eight feet when John decides to blow his nose. John's too tired and too light headed to care what this means, other than it's actually kind of funny. Mycroft notices, however, much less amused than John is.

"Why don't you go pick up a few things to ease John's plight, Sherlock?" He produces a list out of fucking nowhere, and Sherlock reads it, thinks on it, and then is out the door faster than a man about be set on fire. Which is saying something, because John's nearly been set on fire before, and he's pretty fucking sure he broke the sound barrier.

"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft gives this long suffering, drawn out sigh, as if John had personally decided to be absolutely dumb as shit that day.

"You must remember, John, that though my brother is over a century old, he-"

"Stop, just wait. How old is Sherlock?" His voice cracks somewhere in there and the wonderful fact that he's going to lose his voice this week suddenly becomes very clear.

"One hundred and forty-seven. Did he not tell you?" John shakes his head, which was a bad idea considering how dizzy it makes him, but he's full of bad ideas today, so it's no fucking surprise.

"I thought he was thirty, at most." Because for all of his wondering if Sherlock was older than he let on, he honestly didn't believe him to be aged at all. He looked like he was between 28 and 32, and most of the time acted like he was twelve, and John saw no real reason to believe otherwise. How the hell was he supposed to know he was born in the 1860's? "Hang on, how old are you?"

"Three hundred and eleven, as of last Thursday." That made way too much sense.

"Well, happy belated birthday, I suppose. I see you never got over the 1700's."

"Very amusing." Mycroft replied, with his most obnoxious pissy face. To answer, John coughs again, increasingly violent until he's certain he'll die of it. Mycroft acts like he's committed a foul crime, the bastard. Coughing, _honestly._ "Ages aside, you must remember that Sherlock has not spent the copious amount of time with mortals as I have. His view on illness is contextual at best. The few times he's dealt with it have ended tragically, thus-"

"He's convinced I'm going to die." John finishes, trying not to giggle at the thought and opting to sniffle. Mycroft makes another face at that, so John opts to sniffle louder. Being sick has its perks.

"Very convinced. Please try to be gentle on him. He'll be in an odd mood for the week, to be sure." With that, before John can even retort or make other obscenely loud sick noises, Mycroft disappears into thin air again, leaving John alone with only the sound of the television and way too much information trying to stow itself away in his foggy head.

As any compliant sick person does, John sleeps it off. And by sleep, he means moan on the sofa about how he can't sleep.

* * *

Mycroft was right in his verdict that Sherlock would be in an 'odd mood'. That actually was the understatement of the century, and John feels like Mycroft owes him something for that. Hell, he owes him a lot for that and all the other bullshit he gets put through. But that's another subject _entirely_.

Sherlock is positively stressed at John's sickness. He hovers constantly, trying to make things better, yet messing them up in his own ignorance of normal human life. Whatever Sherlock had been doing before they met, it certainly wasn't acting like a person, that was for damn sure. He tried to make food, but ultimately failed at that (John will never look at pasta the same way again after _that_ ), tried to make tea, also a failure but less so, tried to clean up his experiments to make the environment more livable, (also failure, but at least he put a lid on some things), and John just watched from his spot on the sofa, half annoyed and half laughing his ass off.

On top of all of this, Sherlock is constantly fretting. Pressing cough syrup and decongestants in his hands whenever he could. Checking his temperature every hour on the hour. Fearing to leave the flat for more than a few minutes in case John keeled over from the _fucking flu_. John just wanted to wallow and moan in peace while watching some crap telly, not be watched like a hawk for seven days by the world's most incapable demigod.

Sherlock was a genius, sure, but most of the time he was a fucking idiot. He could tell you the difference between a shit ton of tobacco ash, tell you where you'd been by the mud on your shoes, and even tell what type of furniture you'd been sleeping on by the angle of the crick in your neck, but have him take ten minutes to to do anything mundane like make a simple pot of noodles, and he fucks it up to epic proportions.

John appreciates the effort, but Sherlock's losing points for being utterly useless at this.

"Sherlock, stop it." John told him for the seventeenth time, pushing the thermometer away, half a second away from slapping the man. Sherlock is taken aback, but resilient in his cause.

"You're being stubborn. I have to-"

"I'm _fine_. Well, not fine, but _fine_." He adds the last bit when Sherlock dons his 'you're damn liar and we both know it' face. Most of Sherlock's expressions involve this minute quirk of a single muscle, but John's getting better and better at labeling them. "Look, just let me rest and bitch and moan and I'll make sure I don't melt into the floorboards or anything, alright?" John can tell Sherlock wants to argue the point, but he stares him down and Sherlock puts the thermometer away in a huff, thank the Lord (John still uses these terms because after twenty five years of it, he's not fucking stopping now, empirical evidence be damned).

Sherlock doesn't relax per se; he just sort of calms the fuck down. Instead of standing around being twitchy, he goes back to a more normal routine, albeit still glancing at John every few seconds, and he ends up spending more time sitting somewhere near John, just in case. He allows it, even when Sherlock has picked leaning against the sofa where John is laying while sorting through various files on criminal cases. He's not being bothersome there, and even though John now has to make a conscious effort not to cough all over him, it's nice.

John can tell Sherlock is bored out of his skull, but something about being near a sick person has the mad demigod not flopping around the flat like usual.

"You don't have to stay here." John tells him, during one of his more aware moments halfway through the third day of the plague. There is no relief in sight. Even the shit Sherlock is trying to stuff down his throat isn't helping. "I know you're bored."

"I have nowhere else to be." Sherlock says, skimming over a particularly gruesome file. John wants to call bullshit, force him to leave because all of this Sherlock brand of 'niceness' is bothering him. He's not like this, especially not to John, seeing how most of the time Sherlock didn't give a flying fuck about John's physical being. He could count all the times he's expressed concern over any of John's injuries on one hand.

It's not even just that. While this is all odd and out of place, it's also comforting and John enjoys the attention. Every small gesture, every time Sherlock does something to try and make John more comfortable, he can feel that damning little flutter in his chest, and the ache of affection in him that is just awful. Its useless because John knows, knows that if Sherlock had the choice, John wouldn't be the one sick on the couch being monitored and coddled.

"Who died on you?" His voice is like ground beef, quiet and harsh but he's not misheard. Sherlock freezes, shoulders raising at the words. John's willing to admit that it wasn't the best turn of phrase, but he's also going to adamantly put it out there that he's pumped up on a lot of over-the-counter drugs and can't monitor everything that comes out of his mouth.

"What gave you that idea?" Sherlock asks after a long pause, his tone thick and slow.

"Mycroft."

"That was in the past. A very long time ago, and I would prefer to keep it there." Sherlock tells him in this frigid manner that has John's veins running cold. He makes for his room then, leaving John alone, like he had been wanting all day, yet it brings him no real comfort. Now he just kind of feels like an ass.

Lestrade eventually makes a house call at about seven, weary and drained as he all but begs Sherlock to come to a crime scene. Something about an acrobat, a flowerpot, and a doily. John might be mixing up a few details, but his opinion isn't really crucial right now.

"You look terrible." Lestrade remarks, the second thing coming out of his mouth after arriving. The first had been 'Sorry to burst it but-', at that point, he had noticed John sort of sitting, sort of not on the sofa, coughing pitifully as his fever and migraine were steadily worsening. He's also starting to see blue dots all over the place, but that could just be the quart of cough syrup he had just downed.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." The best part about being ill is that everyone points it out, like you couldn't fucking tell from the way you had been puking and all of the burst blood vessels in your face and how you couldn't keep down even a swallow of water that you had a stomach bug. Happens with any physical problem, though John supposes the broken limb responses are infinitely worse. 'Oh, wow, I really did not know my arm was broken in two places nor did I see the heavy and God awful cast _thank you so much for telling me._ '

John likes Lestrade, however. He's a nice fellow, laid back, relatively good at not letting Sherlock walk all over him, and he remembers John on a consistent basis. That last one is really a plus because most people really don't. They could probably be friends if John wasn't under basic house arrest by the gods, but, even with that being an impossibility, the thought in itself is a good one.

Sherlock appears in a quiet ghostly way that shockingly surprises no one. Lestrade doesn't bother telling him why he's here, just goes straight for the details because they all know Sherlock's got most of it figured out by now anyways.

"Will you come?" Sherlock glances at John, as if asking for his permission, which John waves him away because really, Sherlock doesn't need it.

He's just got the flu for gods' sake.

* * *

He was half asleep when Sherlock decided it was a great time to check his temperature without his consent. John was at the peak of illness, his fever at an all-time high and everything that was wrong with him had formed together into a sledgehammer that beat him continually over the head. He may be imagining that last bit, but that's what it felt like. So there he was, on the sofa, half out of his mind and the other half only barely understanding what was going on beyond _this is it, I'm dying_.

What? He's really fucking sick. He can be a bit melodramatic.

While on copious amounts of sinus relief and ibuprofen and partially deranged, John finds himself half waking to Sherlock crouched before him, fresh from the shower and in his dressing gown which, as John has come to find through many weeks of careful observation, he is very much naked under. He didn't even fucking hear him coming back in. This man is actively trying to kill him, John knows it.

John's too out of it to properly complain, or improperly respond, so he just kind of lays there, wheezing though his excessively dry mouth with his eyes just a tad open. Sherlock's leaning over him close, too close, taking in the sight of an exhausted John as if he's debating calling an ambulance. John tries to shoo him away, he doesn't need his mostly naked and still quite damp help, thank you very much, but all that comes out of his mouth is a sad little groan.

There are fingers on his cheek, and then on his neck, checking his pulse, which John is certain is fine since his fever is about the break, but Sherlock's probably going to take it as a sign of imminent death anyways. His hands are cool, or at least cooler than John's overheated skin, and they feel fantastic at that tiny point of contact. Sherlock's fingers stay a little longer than necessary, taking a full minute instead of the usual thirty seconds, and John watches in a detached sort of way as a small drop of water follows the line of Sherlock's hair and down his neck to disappear under his clothes and John mildly wonders what it'd be like to follow that path with his mouth.

John's body hurts too much to even feel a little aroused by that thought, but even the fact that he had it makes his face grow impossibly hotter. Sherlock doesn't act like he notices, instead he pulls the quilt around John up a little, smooths his sweaty hair back, and John has to wonder if Sherlock is seeing someone else sick on the sofa. If John is just a proxy for whoever Sherlock had lost before 'a very long time ago', and if right now he's just trying to do things right. If this is his one shot at redemption. It's a depressing thought, but it's the only reason that makes sense.

Sherlock moves away, hopefully to get dressed, and the strange event is lost to John as he falls fitfully asleep again.

* * *

Next time, when John starts to come to and he feels a bit better in that he's not completely on fire anymore, just sort of on a low simmer, he hears a woman's voice. Not Mrs. Hudson either, someone much more timid, and younger and _do they ever know any other women?_

"Sherlock, this is urgent-"

"Not now, Molly. John-"

"It's not about him. Listen to me!" There's a pause, and this Molly seems to take in a shaky breath before, "I was just checking up on a few things, and-"

"Molly, this is not the place for-"

"-Noticed you disappeared from the List." Its like she just told him that his firstborn child was dead and subsequently eaten by the midwife. Nobody breathes for a long frightening pause, and John hears the telltale swish of clothes as Sherlock moves closer.

"Say that again." John peeks for just a second, seeing Sherlock staring down this tiny woman with the intensity of the sun and John does not, for even a moment, envy her.

"You're not… you're not listed anymore, Sherlock. We don't know when you're supposed to die." They had _lists?_ Demigod talk will never not be confusing, John surmises as he stubbornly pretends to sleep. Sherlock doesn't seem to take this well, the quaver in his voice much shakier than it was before.

"That's not possible." Sounds pretty fucking possible to John. Albeit his knowledge is limited, and he has no fucking idea what's going on, but anything could be possible nowadays.

"I didn't think so either but you just up and disappeared off the charts last week." She sounds just as flabbergasted as he does, which is saying something. "Sherlock, if you're not on our List anymore, you might not be on Mycroft's either." This last sentence hits Sherlock in a strange way, as his next few words are empty of anything.

"Thank you, Molly. I need to, to-" He hears Sherlock slump into his chair and Molly sort of shuffles a bit, not knowing what to do. Hell, John doesn't either. It's almost like watching a daytime drama, seeing how John is completely lost on the plot yet he's still rooting for someone to do something. Who he's rooting for is a complete mystery, but he's definitely getting into it.

"I'll just… I'll just be off then." She leaves in that popping, blinking way they all do, and there's a long stretched out silence as Sherlock takes in this new information. John was just debating on whether to wake up or continue his charade when-

"Is this what it's like to be mortal?" He really needs to get better at acting.

"Who was that?" John asks after sitting up, blinking blearily at Sherlock's huddled form. His head still hurts, but everything is in much clearer focus now.

"Molly. Her parent god is death." Well, fuck. John didn't know what he expected, but he really shouldn't be fucking surprised by this.

"Oh. She seems nice." She did, even despite, you know, the whole death god thing. John still doesn't know what gods there are beside Sherlock and Mycroft's 'Mummy' and now, apparently Death.

God, when did all of this become so _normal_?

"Frustratingly so. You didn't answer my question." Yeah, John was avoiding that. "Is this what it's like for you? Not knowing when it'll end?" Sherlock isn't looking at him, just at the wall behind where John has managed to sit up, but John can see that he is _scared_ , hiding it as best he can, but Sherlock's hands are beginning to tremble and he's drawn himself into a shell.

"Well, yeah, but it's not all bad." At least John doesn't think it is. He honestly doubts he could handle knowing just how long he's got. For all his half-wishing to die, the thought truly frightens him. Even with knowing without a shadow of a doubt that in the end, it isn't actually an end, it's still not something he wants to experience. Ever.

Fucking gods will probably make that part a living hell too. Whoever the god of death is, he's probably an ass. There's just too many unknown variables for him to want to know.

"How can you deal with it? Waking up every morning knowing that this day may be your last?" Sherlock is finally seeing him now, so confused and frightened that John almost doesn't know what to say. They said he had good bedside manner, back in med school, but he's never dealt with a demigod with a life/death crisis. He's met terminal illness patients, the people in the hospice who know they have so little time left. He's guided them through the fear and anger of it, helped them be okay with their lives being cut short. This is the exact opposite.

What do you say to someone who suddenly didn't know what they had left?

"I just don't think about it, really. It doesn't cross your mind usually unless, you know, I'm about to die or someone else does." He coughs, loudly, though its weak and he sniffles again. "Why do they tell you when you're going to die, anyway?"

"For mort- people like you, they respond in one of two ways when faced with their unavoidable death. They either become resigned, or impractical, which makes them useless my superiors. It was decided to keep them guessing since the ignorance to their fate often keeps them complacent and hopeful and willing. Demigods are told to give them an appropriate allotted amount of time to do as they are told and to reassure them that they are not on the verge of reincarnation."

"So your 'type' are a little more worried about moving to a new body."

"When we die, our conscience is placed on hold for decades, eons even. Death is not a short experience. We have a reason to fear it." He's really shaking now, eyes going pink as tears formed in them and John stands up to go crouch before him. The need to comfort, the need to show someone that everything will be okay which had geared him toward becoming a doctor in the first place, overrode his usual weariness at touching Sherlock.

Now, he takes one of Sherlock's hands in his, put on a weary smile, and tries to be as damn comforting as he can while covered in his own snot and dried spittle. He gets some points for effort at least.

"Look, you're nearly a hundred and half years old. You're not going to die today, or tomorrow, or even next week. Chances are you'll be fine for another century or two. And even if you aren't, I'll do whatever I can to make sure you'll be alive and kicking for as long as possible, alright?" Sherlock stares at him, as if John was babbling nonsense, which, with how dizzy he is from moving, this is a viable possibility.

"You can't make promises on the unknown, John."

"You're right. I can't, but I'm going to because I'm as human as fuck and that's the sort of thing we do." Finally, finally, Sherlock smiles, laughs even, shaking his head and clears his throat.

"I'll take what I can get, I suppose." Sherlock answers, and he's got this weird look to his eyes, and John's kind of grinning stupidly at him, still kneeling in front of his chair and the awkward arrangement of their positions doesn't actually dawn on him till he feels Sherlock's thumb move so subtly, slowly on his own. Suddenly, he isn't smiling anymore and all of the air in the room is gone. John is made very, _very_ aware of Sherlocks' mouth and how close it seems and how its slightly open and how John is overcome with the urge to close the short distance between them, that want to finally do something other than pine hopelessly from afar-

Then there's that one intake of breath just a little too deep and John starts coughing at the most inconvenient time in the history of human existence. Gods be damned. Viruses too. Fuck, everything needs to be damned. He withdraws, more embarrassed than he has been in a while, which is saying something since college was not all that long ago and he and vodka are very old friends.

"You should probably lie down, John." Sherlock tells him, now deadpan as ever, and John agrees, clambering back to the sofa, defeated and exhausted. It wasn't like anything was going to happen anyways, was it?

"When were you supposed to die?" John asks, once he's settled and Sherlock has pulled out his phone, doing whatever it is he does on there. John isn't allowed a phone, for some stupid paranoid reason. Like he's going to call the cops. 'Yes, hello, I've been kidnapped by the gods. Please send help.' That'll go over real well, he can already tell.

"I cannot tell you." Is Sherlock's response, tapping away on his phone. "Doesn't matter now. It'll have changed drastically seeing how I'm not listed anymore."

"I can't believe you people have lists. Do you know when I'm supposed to?" Worth a shot. Even if he doesn't want to know, he's still dumb enough to ask, which is basic humanity in a nutshell. Every child does it when they burn their hand on the stove and every adult does it when they try getting drunk for the first time and wake up covered in their own vomit with their wallet stolen in someone else's tool shed. You knew it what was going to happen, but did that stop you?

Not a chance.

"No. I wouldn't tell you even if I did." Sherlock replies.

"Well, what good are you then?"

"Go to sleep, John." He could almost hear the amusement in his voice, and John was already beginning to drift away again. He didn't get to see the affectionate, lost expression on Sherlock's face nor how he left for just a moment to ask Mycroft to extend their time off. John doesn't need to though, buried in his own embarrassment and nasty medication.

He'd get better, awkward almost kissing aside and they'd go back to fighting hellspawn and basement whales in no time. Sherlock would continue to be an annoying dick and John would continue to be an extremely odd mixture of frustrated and turned on at the most inconvenient moments. He'd be fine.

They'd be fine.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear from you. Part Four eventually.


End file.
